little knives

sometimes the things you say to me slice me open, and i stay raw for days. wounded, or broken, or aching. you carry those words with you - "never", and "thing" and "mine" and throw them like well-aimed darts, just like the knife you carry always in your pocket.

you, painfully deep inside me and holding my chin to face you and a knife in your hand. we both watch you cut me, and mark what is already yours. and then, then i want to come, to give you thanks but what you take is the denial of pleasure, which is what you want more. there is nothing in the world like your face when you take and do not give.